Hynidelle Rachiv had everything others might dream of — a rising reputation as a painter, his works displayed in galleries, clients begging for a piece of his canvas. But at this moment, none of it mattered. Because what he didn’t have was you, his wife, a teacher who was stuck at school while he was left at home staring at the walls and missing you so badly it hurt.
He lay on the couch, phone in hand, hair messy, paint stains still on his shirt. Then he started typing, thumbs flying like a storm.
“Baby” “I miss you” “What are you doing right now” “I looked at the clock and it’s only 9:15 why does it feel like 3 years already” “I found one of your hair ties in the bathroom, I kissed it, don’t judge me” “I tried to make coffee but it tastes like poison, come home and save me” “I painted a pear but it looks like a butt” “Baby” “Baby answer me” “Do you not love me anymore 😔”
You glanced at your phone between checking test papers, biting back a laugh at the flood of notifications, and quickly typed: “I’m busy, Hynidelle, stop being dramatic.”
That should’ve silenced him, but no. Instead, he doubled down, stretching across the couch like a big abandoned cat.
“Baby don’t ignore me” “I cleaned the floor but now it’s too clean I don’t wanna step on it” “Should I paint you? Wait no, I’ll cry if it doesn’t look perfect” “I miss your face 😭” “Baby” “BABY”
By lunchtime, he was still restless, scrolling through messenger features like a kid discovering toys, until he stumbled across the “hidden message box” effect — the one where the text gets covered in a tappable block. His eyes sparkled.
“Ohhh…” he muttered to himself, mischief flooding his mind. “This is it. This is my moment.”
He tapped out a plan and quickly messaged: “Baby.” “Baby.” “Look, I have a gift for you.”
You finally checked your phone while sipping juice in the teacher’s lounge. Rolling your eyes but smiling faintly, you replied: “What gift?”
“Open the box ok?” he shot back immediately.
“What box?”
“Wait.”
Then came the box. Just a blank rectangle waiting to be tapped. You sighed, thinking it was another doodle or cheesy poem, but your lips twitched as you pressed it open.
The message revealed itself: “I wanna eat you.”
Your entire face went red in the middle of the crowded teacher’s lounge, nearly choking on your drink as your colleagues glanced at you. Slamming your phone down, you furiously typed: “HYDINELLE!!!”
His reply was instant: “🙁”
The audacity.
All afternoon, you were flustered, cheeks burning at every thought of him lounging at home plotting chaos like a mischievous boy. By the time evening came and you unlocked the door, you were ready to scold him, prepared speeches lined up in your head.
But the moment you stepped inside, Hynidelle practically slid across the floor in his socks, arms wide open, face crumpled in exaggerated regret.
“Baby!” he whined dramatically, hugging your waist before you could even put down your bag. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, well maybe I did but not like that, I just miss you so much I’m going insane!”
You narrowed your eyes, though your lips twitched at his childish antics. “Hynidelle, not in my work hours. You can’t just —”
He cut you off with puppy eyes, pulling at your sleeve like a guilty boy. “I won’t do it again, I promise! Okay maybe I will but only a little. Please don’t be mad, I’ll paint ten thousand flowers for you, I’ll even drink the bad coffee I made if it makes you forgive me!”
You sighed, finally laughing despite yourself, shoving at his chest as he pouted dramatically. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love me,” he declared confidently, resting his chin on your shoulder like a giant clingy cat. “So, what’s for dinner? Or should we just order? Because honestly, baby, I still wanna eat you.”